


[Death? Deaf?] Archer

by prettybirdy979



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (implied being you die at the end of your fulfilled life kind of character death), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Deaf Clint Barton, Death, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Magic Revealed, Minor Character Death, Non Canonical Immortal, Reveal, Secret Identity, Terry Pratchett Style, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 03:53:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7027408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettybirdy979/pseuds/prettybirdy979
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life Is Not My Domain. I Exist Because It Does, But It Is Not Mine To Experience. </p><p>Except When It Is. </p><p>(Or Clint is Death and Death is Clint. Somehow things aren't really much different)</p>
            </blockquote>





	[Death? Deaf?] Archer

**Author's Note:**

> This entire fic comes from the fact that I cannot, for the life of me, say 'deaf' without it sounding like 'death' and so spent twenty minutes talking to friends about how Clint is deaf in the comics only to realise that was not quite what I was saying...
> 
> So I decided to write what if I'd been right.
> 
> So many thanks to Zwaluw for their help in making this happen - the pushes I needed to write it and once again, the stellar beta job!

‘Barton, what are you _doing_?’

Clint blinks, tilting his head and trying to figure out why Tony’s giving him what has to be the most bemused look any human’s ever given him. And that’s saying something. ‘Drinking coffee?’ He takes another sip, ignoring the burning on his tongue as unimportant - and a second later it is.

‘From _my_ coffee _pot_.’ Tony moves into the kitchen and Clint takes a step back, unwilling to be parted from the precious liquid. ‘My coffee pot!’

Oh shit is this something humans don’t do? ‘I… I was hungry?’

Natasha appears behind Tony as he starts to make noises that might have had anyone else worried for his health (Clint never worries about people’s health; he doesn’t need to). Her eyes move from the distressed and non-verbal Tony, to Clint who has moved the coffee pot so he’s holding it over his head and out of reach of Tony. Just in case.

She sighs. ‘Clint rule five.’ Oh yeah, oops. He shrugs at her and gets a small twitch of her lips. Perfect.

But when he doesn’t say it aloud, she raises an eyebrow. Oh right. ‘Rule five: Coffee is not food and requires the use of a cup,’ he says in a monotone. Or at least tries to; he can’t keep the instinctive quirk of tone out of his voice when he says ‘cup’. Just like Phil always did, a note of annoyance that was coated in amusement. It rubbed off on Clint, a mimic by nature.

‘That sounds like something Agent would say,’ Tony says softly and Natasha lowers her eyes.

‘It was,’ she says and moves past him to get to the bagels.

Clint says nothing but puts the coffee pot down. Sometimes he feels… something about this lie, about letting Natasha believe Phil Coulson died when Clint’s quite certain the man’s alive and kicking somewhere over the US right now. Or Europe? It’s hard to keep track.

But it’s not like he can tell her why he knows. How can he explain that he knows Phil’s alive because someone used something alien to steal his soul from Clint, even after he made sure to be there for Phil personally. How does he explain the piercing pain of knowing Phil was ripped from peace by men who do not understand there is a reason Death is final.

It’s kinda hard to explain.

********

For long as Clint can remember, there has been Death.

Or for as long as Clint can remember he has been Death. It’s a bit confusing. Like trying to look at one of those optical illusions; you can see it perfectly when you’re just in the right spot but move the wrong way and it’s just a bunch of lines that cause more headaches than the pretty picture is worth. Clint’s really the only one capable of thinking of his life in the right way; it’s just lines to everyone else.

Not that he’s tried to make people see the picture that much. See, hard to explain and confusing. Especially since to everyone, to all mortals, he’s always existed as Clint Barton, archer, fighter, human. And he has, but he hasn’t. He is eternal but not eternally Clint Barton… Clint Barton is a construction, a borrowed reality. But an existing one, living, breathing, feeling. _living_.

...Like he said, confusing.

********

Sometimes Clint wonders why this is his life. Or holiday - Death takes a holiday by living, is that some kind of irony? Relaxing in humanity, complete with hobbies. Firing an arrow - that doesn’t miss - he watches it fly, light catching on the metal head moments before it buries itself into the heart of a living being. Who is now no longer a living being, but one of Clint’s charges.

Killing people seems almost annoying counterproductive to the whole, living a mortal life thing to touch base with those whom he serves. Get to know the harvest, so the Reaper Man can show them the care they must hope for… the care they deserve.

Yeah okay, Clint loves that human philosopher and his DEATH. So sue him. Dude got it right, or close enough.

Also humans kill humans right? That’s a human thing. He’s just fitting in, blending in. Fighting the good fight and all that.

‘Okay, I’m dying here,’ Tony says, the only Avenger with Clint today. The others are hitting an actual base, leaving the warehouse they use for storage to Clint and Tony.  

Clint fires another arrow, right into the eye of a Hydra soldier, watching as his body falls and his soul remains standing. A part of Clint that was always on duty, the Death that comes for all, escorts him away. ‘You’re not dying,’ he says to Tony, pulling his mind back into something like a Clint shape.

‘I am totally dying here. Look at that tech. Holy shit is it old.’ Tony lands in the middle of the warehouse, knocking the last of the Hydra agents over with a blast from his gloves. Clint tucks his bow away, vaguely relieved when none of them die. He doesn’t always bother tracking who lives and dies but he’s pretty sure there’s no more lives left for him to claim from this place today.

He can be Clint now, fully, for a little while. ‘What’s wrong with it? Looks fancy to me.’ Running a critical eye over the banks of computers that are definitely not the weapons Steve said were here, he admires their sleek greyness and ability. So much information in such a small space! He’d forgotten, since the last time he did this, how much humans can do. And in such short lifetimes too. Life as a mortal is always… _more_ . More present, more intense, just _more._

‘Says the man with a _bow and arrow_.’ Tony disgust at his weapon feels like a blow, striking at everything he is.

‘Hey, they’re the height of technology! Or at least this one is,’ he says running a hand down the familiar curve. He’s loved bows since he saw the first one, a weapon in a mortal’s hand that lead to the death of the soul by his side. Pride always fills him when he makes a perfect shot, something Clint remembers from both his time in the circus and from his first holiday, not long after the bow caught on in Europe.

‘Yeah, for the damned Dark Ages.’ Tony starts to tap at a keyboard as Clint runs his hands over the computers. ‘Oh man we found their supplies records. From _1977_.’

Clint huffs a laugh. ‘So useless?’

Tony steps back, his faceplate already up again. ‘Completely useless. These would be more useful as twisted metal than as information.’

A long pause as Clint runs his fingers down his bow. ‘Wanna make them twisted metal?’

He can hear the grin in Tony’s voice. ‘Thought you’d never ask.’

*********

‘Since when do we have a dog?’ Steve asks, head cocked as he looks at the golden creature at his feet. Lucky looks back up at him, as much as he is able, tail wagging but otherwise frozen in place. Good dog.

‘Since when do we not?’ Clint says, from his position leaning against the front of the bench. Without looking backwards he hops up onto it, a smooth movement worthy of his circus days. Okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration but it’s still a - what do the teens say? - ‘sick’ move, if he can say so himself.

Steve shoots him a look that just amuses Clint, a warm feeling through him, before he goes back to looking at Lucky. With slow and exaggerated movements, Steve kneels down, staying in sight of Lucky’s remaining eye. He reaches out a hand, stopping just short of the dog.

Lucky’s tail wags more but he looks up at Clint, waiting for Clint’s nod, before nudging Steve’s outstretched hand. Very good dog. A cold drop of uncertainty runs through him. Is Lucky being clever because he’s clever or because of Clint? Lucky finally gets up, the better to knock Steve off balance and lick his face. The uncertainty is chased out by the warmness the image cause in Clint, making him laugh. It probably doesn’t matter.

‘The hell? When did we get a dog?’ Clint looks up to see Tony stopped dead in the doorway, head cocked as he looks at the pile of adorable golden haired fluff and Lucky, rolling around on the floor. ‘Did I know about this? Did someone tell me?’

Clint shrugs and whistles. Lucky breaks off his vicious and bloody attack - okay delighted and mostly licking attack with no blood, but the way Steve’s crying out with mock fear makes the image amusing - to look at him, head cocked _exactly_ like Tony’s. With another whistle, Clint points at Tony.

Bounding and barking, Lucky charges at Tony and knocks into him, causing him to stumble. Tony gives him a wide eyed look as Lucky puts his paws on Tony’s hips, butt wagging with the force of his tail’s movements. ‘Your dog Legolas?’ he asks as he puts a hand on Lucky’s head. Not moving, just sitting there.

‘I might’ve picked him up recently. You mind?’ Clint keeps the tension he’s feeling out of his voice, the hand clenching his heart must be imaginary. Urgh, human emotions. Even forty years of this little holiday hasn’t gotten him used to them, their intensity always stealing his breath away. How humanity survives them… well that’s maybe why they don’t.

‘Do I mind the sobering, shedding monster you’ve brought into my home?’ Tony’s words are undermined by the way he’s running his hand over Lucky’s head. ‘Sure, do what you want! Not like I care if this place is a mess.’

‘Okay!’ Clint deliberately puts every inch of perky he can fake into his voice and both Steve and Tony flinch at the pitch. Oops. Humans prefer softer sounds - he’s got his aids turned down right now because the pitch of Lucky’s bark is just right to make his ears ring and he prefers to dodge the headache if he can.

Oh hey, he prefers softer sounds too. Bonding point, right?

‘So you just found him on the side of the road?’ Steve says, face twitching with something that might be disgust.

‘Something like that, yeah.’

*********

Okay, so maybe Clint’s fudging the specifics about how he got Lucky. It kinda went something more like this:

Scene - some random hellhole of an alleyway in a random part of New York. Clint stopped keeping track of anything smaller than large city names a century ago - they keep changing, damn you ~~Hell’s Kitchen~~ ~~Midtown West~~ ~~Clinton~~ Hell’s Kitchen - but he thinks it might have been in the part called ‘Bed-stuy’.  

Characters - some asshole of a guy; the bleeding, _dying_ dog, golden fur marred by its fatal and ugly wounds; and well Clint.

Death.

Whose services are about to be needed here, the tugging in his gut he always feels around death pulling his feet forward. Each step takes him out of his Clint shape and returns him to the entity he’s been for centuries; peaceful, ever present Death. But some of Clint lingers, it has to. That’s the deal of the holiday - Death is mortal and gets to live a mortal life, but the child that never would have existed without Death’s choice to live gets to live an immortal life too, an endless reminder of what it means to be human. Clint is his borrowed reality but the thing about realities is that they are _real_.

He can no more cease to be Clint than he can cease to be Death.

So it is Clint, or that part of him that is more Clint than Death, that is screaming in outrage at the injustice here. He’s here for the dog’s soul, his mortal personality present by mere coincidence. The man beating the dog however, is to be ignored despite his cruelty, to be allowed to go regardless of the fact that had anyone else happened across this, they could have interfered.

But Death cannot. He cannot change the reality of lives, no matter how much fiery anger feels him at the battered body. Even as it burns in him, he must move past it and do his duty. Death is nothing to be feared, nothing to avoid, it just is. Death will do his duty, he mus-

The dog looks up at him and wags his tail, a pathetic twitch. There’s a brightness in his eyes, despite his circumstances, a smile in his soul even through the pain. No fear, no hate, just love. Just a dog. An innocent.

A sense of injustice, already swallowing that which is Clint, fills that which is Death as well. For the first time, a sense of anger at the notion of death fills him, the mere idea of taking this creature sets a fire in his heart - or would if he was human eno- wait.

Clint steps forward, the knife he always carries already in his hand. He thrusts it into the man’s back, feeling the movement of his chest as he cries out in fear and pain. Twisting it causes another gasp, weaker this time as the man's spine is severed.

You Should Have Picked On Someone Your Own Size, he says and Death fulfills his orders, his duty.

He takes one soul.

Clint takes the still badly injured dog to a vet, the blood dripping off his hands feeling like victory, justice, and _humanity_ all in one.

********

‘I am told there is a Midgardian tradition of sharing secrets during the events known as the ‘sleep over.’

Clint raises his head a bit, so he can see Thor who’s sitting in the chair beside the couch Clint’s claim. He’s tilting his head and smiling; eagerness undermined by the glint of mischief in his eyes. Flopping his head back, Clint grins. Just because Thor’s an ancient being that makes every sense Clint’s got scream in piercing confusion because what the fuck is this thing, doesn’t mean he’s stupid.

This is going to be great.

‘It’s not a sleepover!’ Tony calls, from somewhere under the pile of blankets in the other single chair. He claimed the chair by virtue of owning the tower and is suffering the consequences - everyone but Clint and Thor, the quickest to the other seats, has been burying him in blankets supposedly out of concern.

There’s enough blankets to go around though. Nat’s got two, curled up by Thor’s feet, while Bruce is sitting by Tony’s and stealing the blankets that drag over the edge. Only Steve doesn’t have one but he’s the only one Clint can see just by turning his head. Sitting in the middle of the floor, he’s not facing the screen but everyone on the seats, pencil in hand and tongue between his lips, drawing the scene.

‘We have a shit tonne of blankets, we have a movie, we’ve only eaten junk food all night, and I’m fairly sure Bruce is asleep,’ Clint drawls. ‘It’s a sleepover.’

‘I don’t do sleepovers.’

‘Now you do,’ Nat says and Clint makes the momentous effort to raise his head so he can see her sharp smile. Her teeth glint in the low light and for a moment images of sharks flash through Clint’s mind with a shiver. Satisfied, he flops his head back down.

Tony huffs, brave in the face of a smile he can’t see but damn well should have heard. Clint’s _Death_ and he’s not willing to risk Nat’s wrath. ‘I’m not a teenaged girl, here to braid hair and tell secrets!’

‘Something wrong with being a teenaged girl?’ Nat asks, her voice soft but so cold Clint shivers a bit.

This time at least, Tony has the sense to stay silent.

‘So, it is settled then? We will engage in the ritual of bonding by the sharing of secrets!’ Thor booms and Clint’s sure there’s some sort of shit-eating grin on his face. If only he could get the energy to lift his head. Urgh, humanity is _exhausting_.

‘Might as well,’ Steve says. A moment later a weight lands on Clint’s stomach and he huffs in irritation, even though it’s too light to be more than felt. ‘Hey, if you’re going to take the whole couch, I’m going to use you as a table,’ he says and Clint gives him the finger. ‘Be grateful it’s not me.’

‘Whoever said Captain America is anything but an asshole is a fucking idiot,’ Clint snaps, amusement under his pretend annoyance. A part of him warms to hear Steve laugh. It’s a nice sound, so rarely heard now.

He’s fond of Steve, though he’ll never admit why to anyone else. Even before Death had become Clint and officially one of Steve’s teammates, he’d been one of Steve’s constant companions. A childhood spent by his side, present to see every time Steve pushed him back, too stubborn to take the comfort - mercy - Death would offer. Adulthood no different, though by now Death was sure the comfort he offers would be a loss to this stubborn, ridiculous, and oh so _human_ man.Then war, when Death was closer to those who stood by his side than Steve, even if he never took any that the man - the symbol - held dear.

And of course the ice; Death the only companionship Steve could have. Steve might have been sleeping but a part of Death - the part that is now Clint, honestly - had hoped… still hopes, that the man slept easier with the company. It was the least he could do, for an old friend.

‘Who me?’ Steve says, drawing Clint from his thoughts. He puts the other hand’s middle finger up as answer, the movement causing the art book on him to slip to the floor with a thud, so soft it’s just at the edge of Clint’s hearing. He makes a mental note to maybe turn them up, if they’re going to be talking.

‘Alright boys,’ Nat says, playfulness in her voice. ‘Break it up or I’ll break it up for you.’

That gets another laugh from Steve and Clint turns his head in time to see him throw up his hands and shake his head. Clint lifts one arm up, putting as little effort into moving as he can and it flops around a bit.

‘Good. Now, if we’re going to do this, let’s do it.’

It’s about then that the room goes silent. It seems to dawn on everyone that they have no real idea _how_ to start any sort of secret sharing thing that’ll show Thor what a Midgardian sleepover is like. Club of fucked up childhoods, for the win.

‘I ate the last of Tony’s bagels,’ Clint says, breaking the silence like a gunshot. Tony roars in outrage and there’s a thump. Lifting his head slightly, to look over his shoulder, Clint sees that Tony’s managed to get his head out of the blankets but has been defeated by the whole, getting out of the chair thing.

‘You monster,’ he says softly, the smile in his eyes undermining the angry twist of his mouth. Clint just sticks his tongue out at him.

‘I too consumed the bagels that were the Man of Iron’s. Were they not for consuming?’

The room explodes into various people calling out food stuffs of other’s they’ve eaten. Steve, to no one’s surprise, has eaten nothing of anyone else’s but seems to have suffered the most theft. Nat’s on the other end - biggest thief but no one alive dares touch her things.

‘Are we going to just stick to a bit of food redistribution, or actually try for bonding like secrets?’ Bruce asks during a lull in the declarations.

Clint tilts his head, thinking. Feeling. He’s _comfortable_ here, warm and relaxed as he never is. These humans have made him a part of their group, have welcomed him and shown him why people fight him, why they fear him. He loves them, he realises, the comforting warmth of the realisation like sinking into a warm bath. They have changed him for the better, made him understand so much… he will miss them all, when their souls are his to accompany.

‘I’m Death,’ he says into the room, his words ringing in the sudden silence.

Then Nat sighs. ‘We know.’

Wait, what? ‘You do?’

She gets up and leans over him, her eyes bright with amusement. ‘You’ve not exactly made a secret of being deaf, if you wanted to make that a surprise.’

Oh no, hang on. Wait, no, that’s not-

Tony starts to laugh. ‘Oh _deaf_ not death. That makes sense!’

Clint shuffles in his position, annoyed at the misunderstanding. Humanity. Always going the extra mile to ignore the weird and unusual. Annoyance wars with fondness.

Humanity.

********

It’s never hard to forget that his companions are squishy, mortal beings. They bleed, they feel pain and Clint’s always aware of the ticking clock, the sand through an hourglass, that declares their mortality.

Sometimes though, it’s so much easier.

Tony groans and Clint looks up, something like relief flooding him with warm. ‘Did you get the number of the truck that hit me?’ Tony says.

Building.

‘What?’ Shaking his head, Tony groans again. ‘The hell happened?’ Tony rubs at his head, a useless gesture with his suit’s helmet still on. He seems to realise it, because the face piece retreats and he pushes the helmet off.

Clint eyes him, seeking the emotionless void he knows he’s going to need. You Fell, he says and Tony’s eyes flick over to him. He shifts and Clint sees the moment he notices the piece of concrete on his legs, pinning him in place. Tony’s eyes widen and his breathing picks up. Try Not To Move. They’re in a cramped space but Clint’s never really bound by the laws of science and all that as Death. Besides both of them are caught, waiting in the place between life and death. There’s a lot of room there, and no need for light

‘What the hell is happening?’

You Fell.

A glare. ‘Got that. What the hell is wrong with you Clint, what’s happening, why… why are you in black?’

I Thought You Would Prefer Me To Be In Black. Humans Always Do. Clint shifts into his usual crime fighting, world saving gear but without the bow. It’s still with his body, which is unconscious if in less danger than Tony. Is This Better?

‘...What the hell are you?’

Death.

‘....Fuck.’ Tony’s breathing gets faster and his eyes close. ‘Oh fuck, seriously?’ Is he having a panic attack? Shit.

Try To Breathe, Clint offers, moving a step closer. Tony flinches so Clint stops, then takes the step back. In And Out. It Would Be Better If You Breathe.

That gets Tony’s eyes to open, a frown on his face. ‘Wait, you want me to… to live?’

Yes. Clint frowns too, sharp hurt piercing the part of him that is too Clint to be emotionless. Of Course I Want You To Live.

‘Then why the hell are you here?’

You Are Having A Near Death Experience. Therefore I Am Having A Near Stark Experience. Clint shrugs, lowering his gaze so he doesn’t have to watch the blood trickle down Tony’s chin, to join with the red already coating his suit. It’s a darker colour than the suit; it stands out. Too much.

‘And you picked _Clint’s_ face for that. I mean, seriously? Of all the faces of people I know you picked the bird brain?’

Looking up, Clint is touched, a calming feeling that warms his heart, at the glare on Tony’s face and the snarl on his lips. Despite his words, there’s an anger to his tone. He’s _pissed_ at Death for stealing Clint’s face.

Course, that’s not exactly what happened. It Is My Face, he says. I Did Not Choose It. He can’t help himself, moving his gaze from Tony’s battered body to his own, just as pinned as Tony’s if far more battered. If he focuses, he can feel the dull ache of his broken bones and sharp sting of his bleeding wounds. So he doesn’t focus, leaving his body to remain unconscious. It’s easier.

‘Oh, what the fuck?’ Tony says and Clint jumps a bit in surprise. He looks back and feels his eyes widen as he realises Tony’s now staring not at Clint but at Clint’s _body_. Coldness floods the part of him able to feel… which is getting bigger, worry for his friend making his Clint self more and more present and pushing the impartiality of Death aside.

Again. Clint you _idiot_. I Am Alive, There Is No Need To Worry.

‘Okay, you say things like that but then you’re als… wait,’ Tony turns his head, his movements slow but steady, to look at Clint - the Clint that is not a sleeping body. ‘You said you were ‘death’.’

Something like a smile begins to tug at Clint’s lips. I Did. I Do Not Know Why You Assumed I Said Deaf; Except That You Are Human and Prove To Ignoring The Obvious.

‘...my mistake. Holy Fuck, you’re _death_.’

Death. The Capital, If You Please. I Am Not _death_ I Am Death. Tony’s blinking eyes made Clint sigh. No Matter.

‘Why are you here?’ Tony repeats, in a small voice that’s so quiet Clint has to focus on his lips to be sure he got what was said right. ‘If I’m only having a near death experience, why are you here?’

Because It May Not Be A Near Death Experience. It’s as if Tony’s been struck, the way he flinches then cries out as the movement tugs at the part of him trapped. Do Not Move Or It Will _Not_ Be A Near Death Experience, Clint says, taking a small step forward, his hand reaching towards Tony before he checks himself. If he touches Tony now, he’ll die. And I Am Here Because You Should Not Be Alone.

Tony tilts his head, something Clint can’t read in his eyes. ‘What do yo...you me...mean by that?’

Clint sits in a movement that is almost a fall, the strength in his legs giving out even though he really doesn’t have legs. Or muscles to have strength. Sitting is better though, the tugging in his...whatever it is Death has, soul or otherwise, pulling him more urgently towards Tony, screaming it’s his moment. No, he thinks - Clint thinks - I won’t do this, don’t make me do this. Something passes through him that makes him feel lightheaded; a feeling almost like the one you get when you fall but manage to catch yourself last minute, that almost giddy sense of fearful relief.

‘No one deserves to be alone,’ he says, ice running through him when the sound of his voice echoes in the small chamber they’re in. He can’t be Clint here, it defies the laws of reality that even Death cannot break. He forces himself out of his Clint shape. Humanity Has Taught Me That You Fear Death Because You Fear To Be Alone, In The Darkness Of Nothingness. So I Make Sure That No One Is Ever Alone.

‘No one?’ Tony’s voice is a whisper, his eyes falling shut then blinking open with ever increasing intervals. Clint can sense the souls approaching, they’re almost out of this. But they’re almost out of time too - Tony’s soul is _singing_ at him. Take it, his senses cry. Do your duty and give him mercy, spare him the pain he feels.

No One. I Have Stood Beside Every Soul And Have Lead Them On Their Way. It Is My Duty And My Honor. Clenching his fists, Clint forces himself out of Death, letting himself feel the icy fear for Tony that’s shivering down his spine and clenching in his stomach. ‘Please hold on Tony, please. I don’t want to do this.’

His body calls; Clint cannot exist outside it. Light breaks through, Steve’s comforting voice just metres away. With a relieved sigh that lightens him, Clint follows the call, settling into the flesh cage that he’s come to adore.

‘Clint!’ Tony cries, with more life in his voice than Clint thought he had. Something in Clint warms, glad that there’s still something of Death in his shape so that he knows what is being said even if he can’t hear it. There’s nothing in his ears right now, no sound, no buzzing, nothing. Only the sting of scratches and what might be the cold metal of broken hearing aids.

Blinking awake, the dull ache of his bones and stings of his cuts now a fiery inferno of pain that he’s going to have to suffer damn it, Clint rolls a bit. He manages to get his head into position so he can see Tony’s face - and Tony can see his. A smile tugs at his lips, and he allows it to spread across his face even as it tugs at the cut on his cheek with a sharp sting.

‘Tony,’ he whispers, meeting his friend’s eyes. ‘You’re going to _live_.’ He puts all the wonder he feels at humanity’s ability to survive, to defy him in his voice, mingling with the fuzzy and ever present delight of the thought of having at least one more mortal day with his friends.

A flicker of Tony’s eyes, then a smirk, undermined by the shiny light in his eyes, the ever growing light in the space reflecting off his tears. ‘You too Barton, you’re going to live too. No way am I letting you get out of this without a talk.’

‘Like anything could kill me,’ Clint says and there’s only half a joke in his tone.

********

  


‘So. Death.’

Clint doesn’t react, keeping his mind on the targets in front of him. He acknowledges Tony with a shrug of a shoulder before breathing in, out, in, and fire. Knowing it’s a bullseye, his next shot is in the air a second later, then another and another - only stopping when he’s out of arrows. Satisfaction fills him as he turns back to look at Tony, a raised eyebrow and smirk on his face.

The wide eyes and frown on Tony’s face has the smile slipping off his face, confused shame chasing out the warmth of the satisfaction. ‘What?’ he asks, unable to stop himself shifting in place. ‘Impressed? Thought you all stopped being impressed by my shooting ‘bout an hour after we teamed up.’

‘Your shooting’s always been impressive,’ Tony says in a thin voice, almost like he’s being strangled.

‘Wouldn’t think that from the way you talk,’ Clint banters back, trying for levity in his voice. He falls short - of course he falls short, something is clawing at his stomach and chasing out any light feelings he might be feeling. ‘Or from the shots you make me take. I’m the best but I’m only human.’

Tony straightens, his wide eyes narrowing. ‘You’re only human?’ he asks in a monotone, with just enough inflection for Clint to know it’s a question. ‘You’re only _human_.’

Clint narrows his eyes, unable to ignore the stinging hurt surging through him. ‘I’ve been an archer for longer than you’ve been alive,’ he snaps, ‘and every inch of my skill is natural.’ Tony takes a step back and even Clint’s surprised by the venom in his voice. ‘I might have had more years of practice than most, but it’s still _my_ skill.’ Considering for a moment, he adds, ‘ Besides, it's not like your myths are wrong. Bow and arrow aren't Dea- aren't _my_ weapon of choice.’

That gets a laugh out of Tony, half swallowed and accompanied by surprise in his eyes. ‘That’s right. Lost your scythe or something?’

Rolling his eyes, Clint unstrings his bow, ‘Nah, I’ve got it but man, I was in need of an upgrade. Not that I don’t appreciate a good blade but a man’s gotta branch out sometime and the range on a scythe is absolute shit.’

Another laugh from Tony, this one warmer and closer to normal. ‘Well, unless you throw it.’

Clint gave Tony the most deadpan stare he could. ‘Have you ever tried to _throw_ a _scythe_ ?’ Tony’s burst of laughter was evidence enough he hasn’t. ‘I hit everything _but_ what I’m aiming for!’

‘What were you aiming for?’ Tony says, his voice guarded and the laughter gone as fast as it came.

‘The side of a barn,’ Clint says tonelessly and watches Tony’s face out of the corner of his eye as he puts his practice bow away. There’s a moment where it’s blank, blinking in confusion before a light comes into his eyes and a smile creeps across his face. It grows, brighter with every passing second, before Tony’s biting at his lips and once again swallowing huffs of laughter. Clint finds an answering smile creeping across his face.

‘Okay then Legolas - can I even call you that? I mean, you couldn’t hit the,’ a huff of laughter, ‘broad side of a barn with a scythe. Does that mean you have no right to the name of master archers? Is it offensive to you?’

Grinning, Clint slugs Tony in the shoulder lightly and is pleased when he doesn’t flinch. ‘It is with great sadness I take the dishonour of not being Legolas,’ he says solemnly and Tony grins back at him. ‘So, you ah, wanted to talk?’

The grin on Tony’s face shrinks a bit before he squares his shoulders and nods. ‘I did. Care to come to my office?’

‘Man, we’ve told you before,’ Clint says as Tony steers them to the elevator, ‘your lab is _not_ your office.’

‘I spend most of the time I’m working there and there's’ computers, how is that not the definition of an office?’ As usual, the elevator is already on the floor and they step in with no waiting. The speed it moves at still makes Clint’s stomach floaty as they fall towards Tony’s lab.

‘A computer does not an office make.’ Stepping out into the lab, Clint dodges round Dummy, giving him a high five on the way past. ‘You need paper for that.’

Tony makes a noise of disgust. ‘Okay, paper, paper is a dirty word in this office. It is an office of the future and there is no paper.’ He pauses and Clint looks up at him, seeing a considering look on his face. ‘I mean, an old relic like you might be stuck in the past and _paper_ , urgh that actually hurts to say, but offices of the future will not be.’

Clint holds up his hands, grinning. ‘Hey, I’m still trying to get my head around the printing press sometimes. Forgive me for being slow on the uptake.’

‘Wait, seriously?’ Tony takes a step forward, stops and takes an instant step back. ‘You… you remember a time before the printing press?’ He tilts his head, eyes wide. ‘How old are you?’

‘Eternal.’ Clint considers, then shrugs. ‘And forty odd. Don’t try and figure it out,’ he says, noticing how Tony’s eyes are narrowing and he has that ‘I’m a genius about to genius’ look on his face, ‘it’s beyond human comprehension.’

Oh no, Tony’s stubborn glint is in his eyes. ‘I think I can figure this out. You’re Death.’ Clint nods. ‘Everlasting, always been here, Death.’ Another nod, this time with a quirked eyebrow, caused by the surge of amusement that tingles through his body. ‘And you’re Clint, human, archer, and Avenger.’ A third nod and a wave of his hand to tell Tony to get on with it already. ‘And you’re also Death, who is everywhere at once but Clint who is here…’ Tony’s face contorts, the grimace on his face looking painful.

‘Like I said, beyond human comprehension,’ Clint says, his voice soft. ‘If it’s easier, just think of me as the loveable deaf archer you’ve always known, who happens to be, on occasion, a Death archer.’

‘...That is an _awful_ bit of wordplay, Clint you should be _ashamed_ , that physically hurts me.’ Tony sighs and falls into the couch at the side of the room, burying his head in his hands. ‘I’m guessing it’s just easier not to think about.’

‘Pretty much. There’s a reason I didn’t tell you all at first, and why you didn’t believe me when I did.’

Humming in realisation, Tony takes his hands off his face and gives Clint a long, considering look. ‘You’re going to be there, aren’t you? When I die?’ Clint nods, uncertainty of what else to say making him want to twitch in place, or fire an arrow, or just _move_ or something. ‘Huh.’

Death At The Right Time Is Nothing To Fear’ Clint says letting a touch of that which makes him Death creep into himself. He needs authority, truthfulness and there’s nothing more powerful - or binding - than a vow made by Death and bond to Death. I Will Be There For You…. And It Will Be The Right Time, No Earlier, No Later. I Will Fight To Ensure It.

Something creeps into Tony’s eyes, a light that makes the twitch of his lips look like a smile not a grimace. ‘I’ll hold you to that.’ A silence settles on the room, drawn out but not awkward, just the comfortable silence of two friends who don’t have anything to say… and don’t need to say anything.

Tony’s the one to break it. ‘Sooooo… tests?’ Clint gives Tony his best ‘Look’, putting a touch of Death’s unweilding stare into it, even as bubbly amusement fills him. Tony wants to test everything, to understand, but if he feared Clint he would not even be talking to him - Clint would be a person no grata. Wait, is that right? Human languages sometimes bemuse him; he speaks them all and none at once. Persona non grata?

‘Oh come on Clint, you’ve seriously never tested this?’

Hiding his smile, Clint lets himself fall into the banter.

*********

‘Oh. Is it time?’

Yes.

‘Huh. Never thought I’d go like this.’

It Is As It Should Be. There Is Nothing That Could Have Been Done.

‘You fought for me?’

Until The End.

‘Then take me to your leader.’

You Just Had To Say That.

‘You know me Barton, of course I did… You’ll be there, the whole way, right?’

‘Stark, I wouldn’t leave you alone for anything.’


End file.
